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Mourning Pieces (V)

At the wake, I hide in the single-stall Ladies, looking at my father’s rings in hideous dim yellow florescent light. A gold nugget pattern. A horribly tacky embossed eagle in flight. The third has a diagonal band of diamond chips, probably less than a quarter-carat (looking with my dad’s pawnbroker eyes) but real. Why wear fake when real sells for what it melts for? I hold it up to the light, looking for the flash of orange that real diamonds never have, that tells a CZ before you even weigh it, before you look at the customer, “Sorry,” and send them away without five dollars for smokes, ten for gas or dinner for the kids. I want it to be the wrong ring, something fake that wasn’t his, a terrible mistake that’s been made, and the wake goes on without me while I wait in the bathroom, looking for the flash.

(no subject)

(no subject)

Somehow this one hit me more on the second read. It reveals so much, while also leaving space for interpretation.

I could be wrong, but as an outsider, the last sentence feels very symbolic -- "the terrible mistake" would relate to a desire for the death to be a mistake, "waiting for the flash" is similar to the way many people in mourning hope for some sign that it's not real, the proof that their loved one is still there. It's a powerful symbol that way, even if you didn't intend it (though you're a great writer, so I suspect you probably did).

So that's it for my comments, except to say that I'm sorry for your loss. Hugs.

(no subject)

The fragmenting of the pieces like this somehow makes it stronger, more powerful. (plus it's a really cool way to take on the prompt, I thought) But you really show us, in different flashes, what you were really feeling. Your words are beautiful and powerful. You make us ache for you and with you. I'm so sorry for your loss.